Of Stars and Sandcastles
by notantihero
Summary: When you're about to lose the only thing in the world you live more than yourself, you get desperate. You get selfish. You do the thing you thought you never would, just for a bit of borrowed time. Just for her. Post apocalyptic AU, implied icest


The mark of true love, they say, is not being able to imagine your future without that person.

But Elsa knows that it's only half the truth. A very insignificant half that has probably once been the truth before it was bent and forged and twisted into what Elsa feels right now.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Kristoff asks, crouched over the single candle they lit, hands hovering the tiny flame like it provides anything but the dimmest flicker of light. His voice is low: a careful whisper borne out of fear of the things out there and their pinprick hearing.

Like the hands above the candle, whispers and hand gestures do nothing for their situation. They can smell as well as they hear, and there's no cologne in this god forsaken world that could mask the tell-tale of human stink. But she supposed they do this a lot, this pantomime of existence. Every little action that belies humanity counts in a world that has none to spare.

"She will," Elsa says. Her words too, is a pantomime for hope. "She will. I'll make sure of it," she repeats again, as if saying it will make it any more real. As if saying that will draw the play out behind the curtains and they'd live happily ever after in make belief.

She holds her hand out and brushes a strand of hair from Anna's face. Watches as her uneasy breathing hitches and goes and hitches again. Notices the sharp angles of shadow dancing on cheekbones too sharp and too thin. Wonders what kind of dream she's having, if she is dreaming about their house by the lake and the proud grin she wore as she held the bass she caught, freckles dancing under the sun.

Elsa wants to draw her knee in and cry, but she can't. Because there are things out there and things inside her, and she can't let any of them win.

"She needs food, Els. She's not… she's not going to last any longer otherwise." His words are stilted and awkward and broken. It's like he's the puppet to Elsa's ventriloquism, because he's saying all the words Elsa can't, laying all the facts in the cold empty air.

Anna is still asleep on top of their make-shift bed of unassembled cardboard box, hard against the filthy cement floor. There's no need to lift her shirt up and check, because Elsa can count the discrete, jutting ribs burned in her mind.

"Eat what? We don't have anything, Kristoff. There's nothing outside to eat. No rats, no rabbits, no dogs. Nothing."

And if this were a better world, her voice would have risen and fallen with each stressed syllable, but all she can manage now is flat and toneless, because getting angry requires energy, and she has none to spare.

Kristoff shoots her a wary glance, running his fingers through his hair, glancing at Anna through the corner of his eyes. "There's some shops in town. We can go tomorrow. Try to scavenge something. Break into houses. Anything. Just… just to last another day. We can think about the day after tomorrow later. We just need a lifeline, Els. There's bound to be… something left behind if we look hard enough."

She can feel the desperation in the air. Thick, cold, clammy. Like dead fingers on their throat, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

She doesn't say they'd been through the town far too many times with nothing to show, because surely Kristoff will crumble right then and there, crumble into all his malnourished frame and she's not sure if she can row this boat alone with two dying passengers in tow. So instead she purses her lips into a thin line and says, "we'll have to start early. We'll cut through the forest as soon as the sun rises. Maybe there's something left to hunt."

"There will be," says Kristoff. He shuts his eyes close. "Dear fucking god there will be."

The grip is hard against her throat, and Elsa feels like she's running out of air.

**-x-x-x-x-**

But there's nothing.

"Nothing." Kristoff punches the tree. "Nothing. _Nothing._ NOTHING!"

He punches and punches until the bark splinters and his knuckles is raw inside its glove. Rage spent, he turns and slumps down against the tree, staring blankly at his hands. "God we had so much. We had everything, Els. How can there be nothing now?"

Watching the brilliant morning sky, Elsa says nothing. A bird flies overheard, chirping merrily. It seems like birds are the only living left, safe from the clumsy greed of all the dead things around them. Safe from the two starving humans staring at its flight. One of them feels dully mocked, and she suspects Kristoff simply wishes he could fly.

Everyone did, once.

"We should make a bird trap," Kristoff says. "Just sprinkle feed all over the place and kill those fuckers. Maybe there's a pet shop and we can find some food there."

"Maybe we can," Elsa says, unsure if she's replying to the idea of a trap or the idea of finding pet food to feed them all. Just like sometimes she's unsure if her mind will be all there much longer. She wants to laugh, because it's her fault Sven got so fat off dinner scraps and now she's contemplating on eating dog food. Would eat the dog again, too, if there's any left.

They need to go.

Holstering the hatchet back to its loop on her belt, she curls her fingers around his limp wrist – noting how her fingers can almost touch each other – and tugs upwards. "Let's go," she says at the stubborn bulk. "We'll need to walk now if we want to be back by sundown."

"What's the fucking point."

"Anna is the fucking point."

It's a shitty tug-o-war they're playing. One moment it's Elsa trying to move forward, another moment it's Kristoff. They're trying to support each other in false optimism and pretend strength, bound together by this dying girl called Anna.

So she's holding the end of the rope now, waiting for Kristoff to tug and play and his part. It takes far too long, far too many heartbeats (because the beats of her own heart is the only measure of time left when she has all the time in the world and Anna has none at all) before he sighs deeply, as if the rope isn't right in Elsa's hand but tethered over a cliff, over the precipice of gaping mouths and rotten grasping arms.

She waits for him to tug back. There's nothing left to do but wait, nowadays.

"…all right. Let's do this. We'll find something, and Anna will be as right as rain."

He does, because his heart is bigger than the ocean and he always has something to spare. Elsa wishes she can have his heart and his strength, but wishes are like stars: dime a dozen and utterly useless. Maybe one day they can go back to their house, all three of them, and just lie there on the hard wood of the pier, wishing for all things innocent and superficial, safe in the impossibility of their wishes.

Wishes are like stars, so she leaves the thought behind and starts walking, Kristoff behind her.

**-x-x-x-x-**

The town isn't much better. No rats to catch, no humans to greet, not even anything dead to smash and bash into the soothing flag of white and grey and red. It's an entirely hopeless affair, but Kristoff isn't willing to admit it, and Elsa almost thinks she has no fucks left to give. Dying is easy, and when Anna draws her last, ragged breath in her sleep, Elsa know she will, too.

Dying is easy.

She stares down at the only thing they found: a crushed bar of chocolate two years past expiration.

"Small town America, Bumblefuck Nowhere. Population in 2014: 126. Current population: 2. God bless us all." She lets out a laugh. Loud and ringing and hollow.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Kristoff says, as if they hadn't scoured each crevice, each crack clean. Hadn't picked the bones of this town clean and ate it all. "We just haven't looked hard enough."

"She might not have tomorrow."

Kristoff's arm swung and she crumples against the wall. Her eyes flick over the sign on the diner, and her mind wonders if there were people inside The Wandering Oaken's when the end hit. If somehow somewhere they're thinking about this diner and its food and its warmth like Elsa thinks if she will have the courage to give up and spare them all prolonged pain.

**-x-x-x-x-**

"What happened to your face?"

"You should blame our parents for everything wrong with my face," Elsa says, not looking at Kristoff, trying hard not to look at Anna's ashen skin and sunken eyes. "Don't worry about me; worry about yourself."

"There's nothing much of me left to worry about," Anna says, and Elsa doesn't say anything because it's true. She traces the tender bump of Elsa's swollen cheek carefully, tenderly, as if it's Elsa who's going to disappear. "You don't look so much better, Els."

She starts to retract her hand but Elsa catches it and kisses the tips of her fingers. "Still better than you, snowflake. Going to eat the rest of that?"

Anna shakes her head and grasps Elsa's hand, holding it tight in all her own frailty. Their fingers intertwine, a lifetime of promises and wishes under each overlapping finger.

(_and if wishes are like stars, then promises are simply half crumbled sandcastles under the gentle ocean wave_)

"Nu-uh. That's for you and Kristoff. Three way. Equal division. That's how we roll."

"I don't think that's how the world works anymore, love," Elsa says gently. She tries to smile, tries to curve the corners of her lips upward, but they quiver and tremble and everything falls flat again.

She tries.

She can always say that she'd tried. Tried and failed and

And well, she doesn't need to do it anyway, because Anna's doing it for her. She can say she'd tried, but the result is so sad and broken (and _beautiful_) she longs to wipe that smile she couldn't from Anna's face. It's not fair, she wants to say. Please don't make that face. It's not fair. It makes it harder, you know. To let you go. To let me go.

She says: "it's not fair."

"What is?" asks Anna. Or rather, what she would've asked if a wrecking cough hadn't assaulted her like a brick to her already fragile bones, spittle and drool darkening the colour of the cardboard as she coughs and coughs and Elsa becomes afraid she's going to throw up her heart or break her ribs or  
(_die_)  
so many other things she's lost count. She's afraid but no longer alarmed; it's just an episode out of many and it comes and goes like the tidal wave.

Except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists, Kristoff too remains motionless.

The sound might attract them, a small voice says. She drowns it out: but well, not that it matters at this stage. So she does what she always does: she rubs Anna's spine, palm tracing each bony knot, up and down. Up and down until Anna's eyes are bleary with tears and the cough subsides.

"It's okay, Anna; it's okay."

Pulling her sleeve over her palm, she wipes the saliva from Anna's mouth and chin, then kisses Anna's forehead and pulls her tight into an embrace. They remain like that for a long time, rocking back and forth in silence.

"Hey Els?" Anna's voice is soft, tickling the skin above Elsa's collarbone with each exhaled syllable. It's pleasant and warm and human. It's Anna.

"Mm?"

"I love you."

"And I love you more."

"Hold my hand while I sleep?"

"Of course. Always."

And she does, even when Anna's breaths becomes slow and regular and she starts murmuring about nothing in slurred, broken words. Each night she clasps Anna's hand, keeping a vigil of her own heart. A heart she's determined to keep beating against odds as shitty as a rigged race.

Why?

Because she's a coward, of course. Cowards do as they must.

She lets Kristoff let her have the remaining chocolate. His heart is as big as the ocean, and sometimes she hates him for it.

**-x-x-x-x-**

That night, they hear the roar of gunshots.

**-x-x-x-x-**

The next morning, they set off to find the source of the sound, like a bunch of teenagers in a B-grade movie about to enter the dark basement and look for the thing that goes bump in the night. Then again, when you've survived for this long in this shitty world, everything starts to feel like a cheap horror movie.

They agreed that it's the best course of action, just in case there's another local militia rising (because being a woman is almost as dangerous as being one of the those things, these days), or to check if there's a horde drawn from the sound and they should move bases or something (as if they could, really, not with Anna in tow). But really, they're just acting the part of common robbers, drawn to the prospect of another corpse to loot. Or maybe it's just to break the monotony.

Either way, they're approaching the source, stalking silently like moths drawn to flame.

"Well, this is it," Kristoff says. He straps his drawn hatchet back onto his messenger bag and holds out a hand, hoisting Elsa up a steep slope.

She stumbles up, stabilises herself, and takes the carnage in. Five corpses. Four rotten, one still fresh with, still holding a shotgun that's fallen across his lap. A bite to the shoulder, a buckshot to the face.

In summary: nothing unusual. There's only two way a situation like this ever ends, really. You get bitten, and you either wait and let the virus take its course, or you take it into your own hands. It's obvious what this man chose, and Elsa can't help but wonder if it's the correct choice.

"Sad," says Kristoff again with a shrug, his demeanour suggesting anything but.

She nods, agreeing out of the sake of. Well. Nothing. "Let's check if Mr. Sideburns there have anything on him."

"Sideburns?"

It's Elsa's turn to shrug. "Look at his impeccable sideburns. Must be living the fifties or something."

"Good ol' days."

"Good ol' days," she echoes.

And like that, they go about their task with the practised motion of people who have done this too many times. Kristoff starts patting his clothes up and down for bulging pockets, and she starts by unslinging the backpack straps from his stiff shoulders.

It's crusty and old and beaten and probably from a military surplus store. Good investment. Keeping an eye to her surroundings just in case something stumbles out and catches them unaware, she begins by unzipping every compartment and hovers the bag upside down in the air, shaking it until everything inside comes raining down to the ground.

She shakes until there's only silence, then tosses the pack to the side.

Maps. Compass. A few canteens (empty). A hip flask (also empty). A few granola wrappers. A folded photograph of a lot of ginger haired men. A bic lighter. A cigarette carton with only one left in it.

Poor man. Must've been saving it for the end. But the end's come, and his loss is now her gain. She takes the lighter and dangles the cigarette between her lips, striking the flint wheel once, twice, and thrice, finally striking fire. Pocketing the miraculous light, she takes a long drag and blows the smoke skyward.

Kristoff gives her a look. "That shit'll kill you."

"What doesn't nowadays?"

"Fair enough. Found anything useful?"

God. The vices of the old world. She's already feeling the high of her first cigarette in years. "Nothing. You?"

"Guy's running on fumes," Kristoff says, sighing as he stands. "Well, besides a few loose changes. Who the fuck carries coins nowadays?"

"There's no accounting for nostalgia."

He gave a snort. "What a fucking waste of time."

"We have all the time in the world." She's becoming a hipster nihilist, she realises. But who gives a shit anymore. Anna's dying and

She stops that thought right in its tracks, no longer enjoying the smoke. She tries to stop it, but it's like cancer, like a freight train hurtling towards her. Anna's dying. Anna's dying and there's nothing they can do.

Why?

Consumption. Her little sister's body is probably eating itself from the inside out because they've failed as her protector. She has coughs that wrecks all of her tiny body because they've failed her.

Why?

Because they're useless and helpless and just _human_.

Why?

Because. _Because._

A thought so sudden, so dark comes flits through her mind, wedges itself through the cracks and takes root like a hundred year old tree. It's a thought so shameful and so blasphemous she should feel guilty of even thinking it. She should, but she's desperate and doesn't give a crap any more.

She blows another batch of smoke into the air, rolling the cigarette between her thumb and index. Perfect rings.

"How much calories does a human body have?"

Kristoff looks taken aback at the question, non-sequitur. "What? How would I know?" Then his expression darkens. They're probably thinking the same heretical thought. "No way. No _way._ Fucking hell man!"

Another perfect ring before she flicks the cigarette off and stubs it with her foot. "On average it takes two weeks for it to run its course. That's still more time than she has. You know that."

It's said with almost nonchalance, the direct opposite of Kristoff's bared teeth and clenched fists. So, so very close to landing another blow at Elsa.

"Say it straight, Els. Say it fucking straight. I fucking dare you."

What is he, twelve?

"I'm saying that there's ample meat here and she's going to die if you continue being such a drama queen. It's on your hands."

At once he roars and charges, driving her back hard against the dead man's tree. There's a loud thud and she feels dull pain reverberating down her spine. He pulls her forward by the shoulders and slams her back again. "YOU—" Again. "—FUCKING-" And again "—BITCH!"

And stops. Her knees sag and she falls down between his outstretched arms. She wipes the flecks of his spittle with her forearm, ignores the pain and looks up at his face distorted so badly from anguish she wonders which one of them is hurting more.

"I love her," she says. Because that's the only reason she can give. The only reason she should give. "I can't live without her. I love her."

Her words fades away to silence, and Kristoff shuts his eyes tight, teeth grinding in his clenched jaw. A moment passes. Then he opens his eyes (wet, teary) and says softly, "me too."

"I know."

She does. Just like how she knows it's always her name that Anna calls in her sleep, like how it's always I love you, Els and never once I love you, Kristoff. This man has loved Anna for all his life, has stood by her through thick and thin, has done everything for her including murder, and who does she choose in the end? Elsa, her own sister. Elsa.

It's a survivor's fucking guilt. Maybe that's why she can't give up even when she wishes she can. Maybe that's why she's trying to scavenge for the tiniest bit of time to give this man with a heart as big as the ocean. A man whom Anna loves as a brother like she doesn't love Elsa as a sister.

It's for him as much as it's for herself.

"Please, Kristoff."

He runs his fingers through his hair: a nervous tic. A long moment passes before he nods with a grim, determined look in his eyes. "Okay. If that's what it takes. Let's hope it's as slow moving as they say it is."

Elsa shrugs. "It doesn't matter. Borrowed time is borrowed time. We'll all find out together."

"All in sickness and health."

"Indeed."

"I wish we could've done better."

"We tried," Elsa says, voice lowering into a murmur. "We tried and that's the only thing that matters."

The mark of true love, they say, is not being able to imagine your future without that person. But Elsa knows it marks only selfishness.


End file.
